University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.

Time does not move the less rapidly because his progress
is so insensible. The reader will suppose, that,
from the close of the last chapter to the opening of this, a
period of five years has elapsed. There is not only a
change in time but in place. We have abandoned Charlemont
for ever; and so, at a subsequent period, have all
the well known villagers. Our scene opens at a very
beautiful town, surrounded by a cluster of steep hills, on
the banks of the Kentucky river. The city of F—is a
capital—beautifully built, laid out in rectangular sections,
and presenting altogether a view at once pleasing and
surprising from any of the numerous eminences which
wall it in. A city of considerable opulence, and tolerably
large population, it is abundantly distinguished by talent,
of which the Union has been presented with numerous
proofs, at this and subsequent periods. Upon the resources
of the city, however, it is not our purpose to
dwell. We confine ourselves to some few among its
members. Let us introduce them.

The reader will suppose himself within one of those
dark, dusty tabernacles, which, in silent, narrow streets,
and parts of a city secluded from the more uproarious
clamours of trade, have been usually assigned to the professors
of the law. Like the huge spiders to which they
have been likened, these gentlemen have always exhibited
a decided preference to the dim and dusty corners. A
neat, well-painted suite of rooms, among these, rightly incurs
the imputation of professional dandyism; and is an
error of taste and judgment into which none of the adepts
of the profession will readily fall. That to which we now
repair, is evidently one belonging to a veteran. If ever
dust and dismals could sanctify one spot more than another,
in the eye of a grave and thoughtful lawyer, this
was the one. It consisted of two small snug chambers,
dimly lighted by a single window in each, the panes of
which were not often subjected to the influence of soap
and water. Shelves of cumbrous books, of that uniform

complexion which distinguishes a lawyer's office, added to
the dusky gravity of the apartments. A huge table occupied
the centre of one of the rooms, which also bore its
burden of volumes. Rigid cases of painted pine occupied
the niches on each side of the chimney, divided into numerous
sections, each filled with its portly bundles of
closely written papers;—
In short, all the proofs were there of a law office, the proprietor
of which was in very active and successful practice.
But the gravity which distinguished the solemn
fixtures, and the silent volumes, did not extend to the
human inmates of this dim lodging house of law. Two
of these sat by the table in the centre of the room. Their
feet were upon it at opposite quarters, while their chairs
were thrown back and balanced upon their hind legs, at
such an angle as gave most freedom and ease of position
to the person. Something of merriment had inspired them,
for the room was full of cachination from their rival voices,
long before our entrance. Of the topics of which they
spoke, the reader must form his own conjectures. They
may have a significance hereafter, of which we have no
present intimation. It may be well to state, however,
that it is our present impression that we have been introduced
to both of these persons on some previous occasion.
We certainly remember that tall, slender form, that
sly, smiling visage, and those huge bushy whiskers.
That chuckling laugh enters into our ears like a well remembered
sound; and, for the companion of him from
whom it proceeds, we cannot mistake. Every word
and look is familiar. It is five years gone, indeed, but
the impression was too strongly impressed to be so easily
obliterated. Our companions were still merry. The conversation
was still disjointed—just enough being said to
renew the laughter of both parties. As, for example:—

“Such an initiation!” said one.

“Ha! ha! ha!” roared the other, at the bare suggestion.

“And did you mark the uses made of old Darby,
Warham?”

“No: I missed him before eleven. Did he not escape?
Where was he?”

“Quiet as a mouse, unconscious as a pillow, under the
feet of Barnabas. Barnabas used him as a sort of foot-stool.
First one foot, then another, came down upon his
breast; and you know the measure of Barnabas' legs.
Ha! ha! ha!”

“Ha! ha! ha!”

“Hundred pounds each, by Jupiter. Whenever they
came down you could hear the squelch. Poor Darby did
not seem to breathe at any other time, and the air was
driven out of him with a gush. Ha! ha! ha! It was
decidedly the demdest fine initiation I ever saw at the
club.”

“But Beauchampe!”

“Ah! that was a dangerous experiment. He can't
stand the stuff.”

“No, Ben, and that's not all. It will not do to put it in
him, or there will be no standing him. What passions!
Egad, I trembled every moment lest he should draw knife
upon the Pope. He's more a madman when drunk than
any man I ever saw.”

“He's no gain to the club. He has no idea of joking.
He's too serious.”

“Yet what a joke it was, when he took the Pope by
his nose, in order to show how a cork could be pulled
without either handkerchief or corkscrew.”

“Ha! ha! ha! I thought he'd have wrung it off.”

“That was the Pope's fear also: but he was too much
afraid of provoking the madman to do worse, to make the
slightest complaint, and he smiled too, with a desperate
effort, while the water was trickling from his eyes.”

“Ha! ha! ha!” and the chuckling was renewed, until
the sound of footsteps in the front room induced their
return to sobriety.

“Who's there?” demanded one of the merry companions.

“Me!—the Pope,” answered the voice of the intruder.

“Ha! ha! ha!” was the simultaneous effusion of the
two, concluded, however, with an invitation to the other
to come in.

“Come in, Pope, come in.”

A short, squab, but active little man, whose eyes snapped
continually, and whose proboscis was of that truculent
complexion and shape which invariably impresses
you with the idea of an experienced bottle-holder, at once
made his appearance.

“Ha! ha! ha! Your reverence, how does your dignity
feel this morning—your nose, I mean?”

“Don't talk of it, Warham, I was never so insulted in
all my life.”

“Insulted! How? By what?”

“By what! why that d—d fellow pulling my nose.”

“Indeed, why that was universally esteemed a compliment,
and it was supposed by every one to give you pleasure,
for you smiled upon him in the most gracious manner,
while he was most stoutly tugging at it.”

“So I did, by the ghost of Naso, but reason good was
there why I should? The fellow was mad—stark mad.”

“Oh, I don't think he would have done any harm.”

“Indeed, eh! don't you. By the powers, and if you
have your doubts on that point, get your nasal eminence
betwixt his thumb and finger, as mine was, and you will
be ready enough to change your notion, before the next
sitting of the Symposia. D—n it, I have no feeling in the
region. It's as perfectly dead to me ever since, as if it
were frozen.”

“It certainly does wear a very livid appearance, eh,
Ben?” remarked the other, gravely.

“Do you think so,” responded the visiter, with some
signs of disquiet.

“Indeed, I think so. Will you pass Dr. Filbert's this
morning—if so, take his opinion.”

“I will make it a point to do so. I will.”

“It's prudent only. I have heard of several disastrous
cases of the loss of the nose. Perhaps there is no feature
which is so obnoxious to injury. The most fatal symptom
is an obtuseness,—a sort of numbness—a deficiency
of sensibility.”

“My very symptom.”

“Amputation has been frequently resorted to, but not
always in season to prevent the spread of mortification.”

“The devil, you say,—amputation!”

“Yes,—but this is a small matter.”

“What! to lose one's nose—and such a nose!”

“Yes, a small matter. Such is the progress of art that
noses of any dimensions are supplied to answer all purposes.”

“Is this true, Warham? But dang it, even if it were
there's no compensating a man for the loss of his own.
No nose could be made to answer my purposes half so
well as the one I was born with.”

“But you do not suppose that you were born with that
nose.”

“Why not?”

“You were born of the flesh. But that nose is decidedly
more full of the spirit.”

“That's an imputation. But I can tell you that a man's
nose may become very red, yet he be very temperate.”

“Granted. But temperance, according to the Club,
implies any thing but abstinence. Besides, you were
made perpetual Pope only while your nose lasted, and
colour, size, and the irregular prominences by which
yours is so thickly studded, were the causes of your selection.
The loss of your nose itself would not be your
only loss. You would be required to abdicate.”

“But you are not serious, Warham, about the susceptibility
of the nose to injury.”

“Ask Ben!”

“It's a dem'd dangerous symptom, you have, your
reverence.”

“Coldness—at once a sign of inferior capacity, for it is
the distinguishing trait of cat and dog.”

“And the dem'd numbness.”

“Ay, the want of sensibility is a bad sign. Besides, I
think the Pope's nose has lost nearly all its colour.”

“Except a dark crimson about the roots.”

“And the bridge is still passable.”

“Yes, but how long. That has grown pale also.”

“To a degree, only, Ben: I don't think it much faded.”

“Perhaps not; and now I look again, it does seem to
me that one of the smaller carbuncles on the main prominence
keeps up appearances.”

“Look you, lads, d—n it, you're quizzing me!” was the
sudden interruption of the person whose nose furnished
the subject of discussion, but his face wore a very bewildered
expression, and he evidently only had a latent
idea of the waggery of which he was the victim.”

“Quizzing!” exclaimed one of the companions.

“Quizzing!” echoed the other. “Never was more
dem'd serious in all my life!” and he stroked his black,
bushy whiskers in a very conclusive manner. The visiter
applied his fingers to the nasal prominence which had become
so fruitful a source of discussion, and passed them
over its various outline with the tenderness of a man who
handles a subject of great intrinsic delicacy.

“It feels pretty much as ever!” said he, drawing a long
breath.

“Ay, to your fingers. But what is its own feeling?
Try now and snuff the air.”

The ambigious member was put into instant exercise,
and such a snuffing and snorting as followed, utterly
drowned the sly chuckling in which the jeering companions
occasionally indulged. They played the game,
however, with marvellous command of visage.

“I can snuff—I can draw in, and drive out the air!”
exclaimed the Pope, with the look of a man somewhat
better satisfied.

“Ay, but do you feel it cut—is it sharp—does the air
seem to scrape against and burn, as it were, the nice,
delicate nerves of that region.”

“I can't say that it does.”

“Ah! that's bad. Look you, Ben. There's a paper
of snuff, yellow snuff, on the mantelpiece in t'other room.
Bring it,—let the Pope try that.”

The other disappeared, and returned, bringing with him
one of those paper rolls which usually contain Sanford's
preparation of bark. Nor did the appearance belie the
contents. The yellow powder was bark.

“Now, Pope, try that! The test is infallible, that is
the strongest Scotch snuff, and if that don't succeed in
titillating your nostrils, run to Filbert with all possible
despatch. He may have to operate!”

The Pope's hand was seen to tremble, as a portion of
the powder described as so very potent, was poured into
it by the confederate. He put it to his nose, and, in his
haste and anxiety, fairly buried his suspected member in
the powder. His cheeks shared freely in the bounty, and
his mouth formed a better idea of the qualities of the
“snuff,” than ever could his proboscis. The application
over, the patient prepared himself to sneeze, by clapping

one hand upon the pit of his stomach, opening his mouth,
and carefully thrusting his head forward and his nose upward.

“Oh! you're trying to sneeze!” said one of the two.
“You shouldn't force the matter.”

“No, I don't. But is the snuff so very strong?”

“The demdest strongest Scotch that I ever nosed yet.”

“I can't sneeze!” said the Pope, in accents of consternation.

His companions shook their heads dolefully. He looked
from one to the other as if not knowing what to do.

“A serious matter,” said one.

“Dem'd serious! There's no telling, Warham, what
sort of a looking person the Pope would be without his
nose.”

“Difficult, indeed, to imagine. A valley for a mountain!
It's as if we went to bed to-night with the town
at the foot of the hills, and rose to-morrow to find it on
the top of them. There's nothing more important to a
man's face than his nose. Appearances absolutely demand
it. The uses of a nose, indeed, are really less important
than its presence.”

“I can't agree with you there, Warham;—a sneeze—”

“Is a joy, Ben,—a luxury; but a nose is necessity.
What show could a man make without a nose?”

“Rather what a show he would make of himself. A
monstrous show!”

“You're right. Besides, the Pope's loss would be
greater than that of most ordinary men.”

“Much, much! Let us take the dimensions, Pope.
Three inches from base to apex—from root to the same
point—”

“Four at least—the dromedary's hump alone calls for
two.”

And in the spirit of unmeasured fun, the person who is
called Ben by his companion, arming himself with a string,
was actually about to subject the proboscis of the Pope to
rule and line, when the eyes of the latter, which had really
exhibited some consternation before, were suddenly illuminated.
He caught up the paper of supposed snuff which
Ben had incautiously laid down upon the table and read
the label upon it.

“Ah! villains!” he exclaimed, “at your old tricks. I

should have known it. But I'll pay you,” and starting up
he proceeded to fling the yellow powder over the merry-makers.
This lead to a general scramble, over chairs and
tables from one room to another. The office rang with
shouts and laughter—the cries of confusion and exultation,
and the tumbling of furniture. The atmosphere was filled
with the floating particles of the medicine, and while the
commotion was at its height, the party were joined unexpectedly
by a fourth person who suddenly made his
appearance from the street.

“Ha, Beauchampe! that you; you are come in time.
Grapple the Pope there from behind, or he will suffocate
us with Jesuit's bark.”

“And a proper fate for such Jesuits as ye are,” exclaimed
the Pope, who, however, ceased the horse-play the
moment that the name of the new-comer was mentioned.
He turned round and confronted him as he spoke with a
countenance in which dislike and apprehension were
singularly mingled and very clearly expressed.

“Mr. Lowe, I am very glad to see you here,” said
Beauchampe respectfully but modestly,—“it saves me the
necessity of calling upon you.”

“Calling upon me, sir? For what?”

“To apologize for my rudeness to you last night. I was
not conscious of it; but some friends this morning tell
me that I was rude.”

“That you were, sir! You pulled my nose! You
did!”

“I am sorry for it.”

“No man's nose should be pulled, Mr. Beauchampe,
without an object. If you had pulled my nose with
an intention, it might have been excused; but to pull it
without design is, it appears to me, decidedly inexcusable.”

“Decidedly, decidedly!” was the united exclamation of
the two friends.

“I am very sorry, indeed, Mr. Lowe,—it was, sir, a
very unwarrantable liberty, if I did such a thing, and I know
not how to excuse it.”

“It is not to be excused,” said the Pope, or Lowe,
which was his proper name; whose indignation seemed to
increase in due proportion with the meekness and humility
of the young man. “A nose,” he continued, “a nose is

a thing perhaps quite as sacred as any other in a man's
possession.”

“Quite!” said the jesters with one breath.

“No man, as I have said before, should pull the nose of
another, unless he had some distinct purpose in view.
Now, sir, had you any such purpose?”

“Not that I can now recollect.”

“Let me assist you, Beauchampe. You had a purpose.
You declared it at the time. The purpose was even a
benevolent one; nay, something more than benevolent.
The corkscrew had been mislaid, and you undertook to
show to the Pope—remember, the presiding officer of the
society—that a cork might be drawn without any other
instrument than the ordinary thumb and forefinger of a free
white man. You illustrated the principle on the Pope's
proboscis, and so effectually, that every body was convinced,
not only that the cork might be drawn in this way
from every bottle, but that the same mode would be equally
effectual in drawing any nose from any face. If this was
not a purpose, and a laudable one, then I am no judge of
the matter.”

“But, Sharpe, my dear fellow,” said Lowe, “you overlook
the fact that Beauchampe has already admitted that he
had no purpose.”

“Beauchampe is no witness in his own case, nor is it
asked whether he has a purpose now, but whether he had
one when the deed was done.”

“It was a drunken purpose then, colonel,” said Beauchampe
gravely.

“Drunk or sober, it matters not,” said the other—“it
was not less a purpose, and I say a good one. The act
was one pro bono publico; and I moreover contend that
you did not pull the nose of our friend except in his official
capacity. You pulled the nose, not of Daniel Lowe,
Esq., but of the Supreme Pontiff of our microcosm; and
I really think that the Pope does wrong to remember the
event in his condition as a mere man. I am not sure that
he does not violate that rule, 17th section, 7th clause, of
the `ordinance, for the better preservation of the individuality
of the fraternals,' which provides that `all persons,
members who shall betray the discoveries, new truths, and
modern inventions, the progress of discovery and proselytism;
the processes deemed essential to be employed;

&c.'—you all remember the section, clause and penalty.”

“Pshaw, how can you make out that I violate the clause.
What have I betrayed that should be secret?”

“The new mode of extracting a cork from a bottle
which our new member, Beauchampe, displayed last
evening to the great edification of every fraternal present.”

“But it was no cork!—My nose—”

“Symbolically, it was a cork, and your nose had no
right to any resentments. But come, let us take the back
room again and resume our seats, when we can discuss the
matter more at leisure.”

The motion was seconded and the dusty particles of
Jesuit's bark having subsided from the atmosphere of the
adjoining room, the parties drew chairs around the table
as before with a great appearance of comparative satisfaction.